Interlude: Hardcore nerd porn

Day 48. 183 pages, 86,207 words.

Not going to have time to write today, on account of work-related travel. So, to keep you entertained, I offer you: This website.

Yes, be warned. It starts out (and actually continues, on and off) as pretty severely Not Safe For Work straight-up cartoon porno (actually, not just straight-up, they cater to all sorts so I could quite easily make this into a post about gender and sexuality equality in the pornographic arts), but it has a lot of fantasy-based and roleplay in-jokes, as well as some really quite brilliant commentaries and thought-provokers along the way. It is, despite its decidedly adult content[1], one of the most brilliant webcomics I have ever read.

[1] Although, now I analyse this sentence a bit, I do have to wonder. Okay, it has lots of sex in it, of various sorts. In that sense, it’s got adult content. It also has a lot of pop culture and high fantasy references that adults of a certain ilk will get, and a lot of really quite interesting and downright surreal stuff that, again, adults will appreciate. So I’m not sure why it’s brilliant despite having sex in it. The sex is often a tool in and of itself, so it serves to check my odd political-overcorrect puritanism sometimes. Also, hur hur. Tool.

I’d been seeing cartoons from this site in various places, linked and copied and sent around, for years. And I think I’d read a few of the sequences. But I’d never bothered to actually go to the website and read from the start. I’m not sure if they haven’t changed their setup to get it all working better and get the archive nice and accessible. It’s well worth a look. Just … don’t let your boss find it on your browser history, I guess. Although you could have a darn good debate on your hands about just what exactly is wrong with a bit of cartoon porn, and who exactly is being harmed by it. Aside from whoever is in charge of productivity at your office.

Mostly, though, it’s hilarious. Read at your own peril.

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Black Honey Wings, Part XVIII

Day 47. 180 pages, 85,352 words.

Drago was knocked off his feet when the docking bay exploded, even though he was several passages away and one level up from where he had entered the cargo hold when the A-Mod 400 began pelting it with mini-whorls. He scrambled upright, swearing as the burned skin on the palm of his hand split, and ran on. There was smoke in this corridor and it was only a matter of time before fire-containment measures made his life even more difficult.

He found his way by back-corridors to the Black Honey Wings’s main engineering block, not only before more decompression barriers came down but also running into just two people in the process. He pulled a piece of plain sheathing off the wall and used it to absorb the wild blast of heat from the weapon in one of the humans’ hands, then dropped the buckled composite plate and launched himself between the two crewmen. He would have liked to leave one of them conscious, if only so he could ask where everybody was, but the second blast from the heat-baton went directly into the face of the second guy just as Drago was cracking the head of the first against the wall.

Shrugging to himself and slipping the heat-baton into his belt – with due consideration to the fact that he now had two decidedly phallic objects stuck around his waist, and that there was no way he was going to avoid some smarmy remarks – he ducked inside the engineering complex.

Main engineering also seemed to be empty, aside from a pair of ables who attempted to apprehend him according to the security protocols built into their configurations. Their configurations also rendered them unable to do much more than punch him or attempt to grapple him to the floor, however, so it was easy enough to put them down even considering their genetically-flawless strength and agility. In this case he didn’t bother trying to leave them awake, since an able would not reveal the crew’s actions or whereabouts even under torture. He couldn’t, any more than Barducci could have recited the complete Arguments of Dicates and Fluence word for word.

There was more shooting while he made his way through the chambers towards the transpersion core, and now the ship was really starting to rock. He couldn’t tell from here whether the Black Honey Wings had lost subluminal drive power, but he strongly suspected it was the case. That was why the A-Mod 400 had targeted the hold, after all.

That meant they would be moving on to higher-energy-release targets, and getting ready to do serious damage. Which meant he only had a few dwindling minutes, if that, to unlock and disengage the safeguards that would allow the runaway power surges and overloads to reach critical levels.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to get inside the core to do that. Entering a transpersion reactor was a dicey business at the best of times, and when the energy output was fluctuating – as it did in a damaged system – your chances of getting lost increased dramatically. His old Academy buddy Selby had vanished into a transpersion core maze. During an exercise. Drago himself had done better than most humans in his classes when it came to transpersion physics, but it was mostly a mystery to him. He had, however, learned a few dirty tricks.

The safeguard controls were located on a more stable and accessible locked console on the outside of the deceptively-small core chamber, and the lock was pretty easy to break when you had some command experience and a heat-baton.

The closest hits of all came as he was bolting back out of main engineering and away from the central regions of the vessel. It took real willpower to run into the part of the ship that seemed to be taking the worst beating, apparently in defiance of all self-preservation and common sense. He followed the lateral power feed in the hopes that it would take him by the shortest route to the nearest section of outer deck. The blasts hammered almost directly over his head, possibly taking out the level above, but mercifully seemed to be receding as the A-Mod 400 – presumably – peeled along the larger ship’s hull en route to another part of the battlefield. He heard and felt other impacts elsewhere, and thought they might have been torpedo hits against the life pod bays. In the unlikely event that the rest of the crew had been trying to evacuate, the torpedoes would have put a stop to it.

The hits overhead, however, were Godfire. He suspected, aside from the months he had spent actually working inside the mini-whorl gunnery, that this was the closest he’d ever gotten to live Godfire. And it was different, when it initiated from the stockpile and surged out through the guns. It was tamer. Here, as the A-Mod 400 swept by overhead and peppered the Black Honey Wings opportunistically with blasts, it howled. One shot, just as he was sprinting out along the corridor, actually pierced the deck above and impacted right behind him.

His ears rang with it even as the corridor opened briefly to vacuum and he was flung into the air before the emergency seal came down almost right on top of him. It was an unearthly, musical chord, the sound of the grey fire ripping a long channel right out of the universe and feeding it into unreality. It wasn’t like tortured metal or burning air or tearing flesh. It was worse, more fundamentally wrong, than all of those things.

Reality sang as it became nothingness.

He’d never felt it, despite what a lot of people said, when he was inside a starship that was crossing over from normal space into soft-space. Some people said they felt a turning-over sensation, or a feeling like the molecules of their body being frozen for a split-second in almost-synchronised sequence. He’d always thought it was psychological. And it may well be – but when that Godfire howled into the deck behind him, he felt that sweep of coldness even before the more profound rush of heat-loss that came from the hull breach. He felt every particle in his body shiver. And he would feel it, from that moment on, every time the A-Mod 400 went superluminal.

He stumbled and rolled into a series of side rooms just as the hammers of the emergency seals began coming down all along the corridor. The wall of the room he ended up in buckled and he charged off again, following the path of the lateral power feed in the now-sealed corridor. He flailed from room to room, more crashes and alarms and emergency seals going on all around him. Three more times he entered rooms with crewmembers – humans and ables – in them, but they were all already dead due to power surges and an assortment of ugly mechanical failures. On one such occasion there was also a Bonshoon, alive, hideously burned and struggling with a collapsed set of conduits on the far side of the room amidst the charred corpses of humanoids. She raised her eyes, bright blue in her blackened face, and stared at Barducci as he barrelled through. She made no attempt to apprehend him.

Finally he fetched up against a cross-passage at the exterior of the ship, a closed seal to his right where the corridor he had been in would have opened into a T-junction. Something a few rooms back began to go critical. He could feel the heat baking against his back. He thought it might have been the conduits the Bonshoon woman had been wrestling with. The corridor stretched left and right, dotted with windows opening on debris-strewn blackness. He’d lost his heat-baton, but by some miracle he still had the Fergunak core dangling from the side of his belt.

He sighed. End of the road.

Directly to his left, in a sudden and absurd manner, the battered nose of an armoured lander suddenly appeared in the middle of the corridor and a flared ruff of emergency hull-sealant plates leapt comically out around the gap, blocking off the vacuum tightly before any decompression could take place. Seals nevertheless came down on either side, trapping Drago inside the fifty-foot corridor-segment with the lightly-hissing lander.

If he’d been standing any closer to it, he would have been impaled by shredded hull plating. He laughed.

“God damn it, Tippy,” he said, as the lander door ground open.

“Yell at me on the way out of here,” Tippy shouted. “We’ve got about thirty seconds before we get a modular in the face,” he paused, and eyed the Commander. “Is that a Fergie computer core in your pants, or are you just-”

“Shut up.”

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Interlude: Fifteen

Day 46. 173 pages, 81,837 words.

Well Hell. Looks like it’s the 1st of September, and that means I have been a happily married Hatboy for fifteen frippin’ frappin’ years.

I will add this humble blog tribute to my equally humble declarations of affection and gratitude elsewhere. Words really can’t express how I feel about this little lady, and that’s a darn shame because when they were handing out strengths, I was all like “words”. And they were all, “are you sure? We’ve got chiselled good looks, rock-hard abs, consistent temper, gigantic penis? That last one’s very popular…” and I was all, “no, words. It’s gotta be words. Also, stop smirking at my penis.”

And since it looks like I am about to be buried under the paper landslide at work again for a while, I will make this brief.

Miffle, you are my everything.

Wump and Toop are also my everything, but they’re, like, new everythings that sort of came along and everythinged over the top of the everything you already were. You were everything before there was all the other everything. You’re a load-bearing everything.

See? Words.


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Black Honey Wings, Part XVIII (Meanwhile)

Day 45. 169 pages, 79,648 words.

Four well-spaced bolts of the howling grey Damorakind fire hammered away the dock shielding, the cargo doors, a scattering of equipment and vehicles inside the dock, and – most likely – crippled the Black Honey Wings’s subluminal engines. The shattered starship lost all semblance of drive thrust and began to slowly turn and coast under her existing impetus, so it seemed like a reasonable bet.

W’Tan was fairly sure she saw the wreckage of the Fergunakil clipper in between the third and fourth blasts, scattering out into space amidst the rest of the cargo and debris. Things were moving fast, however, and the shattered remnants all looked fairly similar as they turned and winked in the minimal light offered by two embattled starships in deep space.

She assumed that Barducci had gotten what they needed from the clipper and had moved on out of the hold before her assault, but timing was critical and she had to focus on her own part of the fight. There were upwards of three hundred and fifty people on board her ship that she needed to keep alive. She still intended to lodge an official executive lower-levels reprimand for the record, though. As XO, she should have been informed of a fast-clipper rendezvous. And not just because it might have made her responses to later events more effective and relevant – there were any number of security and procedural considerations involved in AstroCorps interactions with agents of the Fergunak.

Of course, Skelliglyph knew this perfectly well, which was probably why he hadn’t told her.

W’Tan turned her attention towards the apparently-runaway modular. She’d broken dock in a shower of habitat debris and other clutter, and was listing – slowly, but with gathering momentum – towards the main body of the Black Honey Wings. The docking spar, or at least the far end of the Black Honey Wings hull that the A-Mod 400 had already severed in her initial attack after undocking, was spinning slowly away from the combat volume.

“Any contacts, Mister Segunda?”

“Only some maintenance-channel pings for Tippy, Acting Captain,” Stana Pae Segunda replied. “Providence already passed them on to the lander. Apparently the Nope, Leftovers launched escape pods a short while back. Tippy’s going to take care of them.”

“Any sign that the Black Honey Wings is preparing to launch escape pods of her own?” W’Tan asked.

“No, Acting Captain,” Krader reported. “It seems likely that the modular section housed a lot of the less military crew, who were under orders to evacuate,” or just not under any orders to the contrary, W’Tan thought. “The crew on the main body are more likely to know how this ends.”

“Let’s hit the pod bays on our next sweep anyway,” she decided, and the A-Mod 400 swept around the crippled bulk of the enemy starship, “and remove it from their list of available alternatives.”

“Bays will be in range of the big guns if we sweep back towards the end of the spar, Acting Captain,” Ruel reported from the secondary bridge. “But that will take us into the path of that modular.”

“Hit them with guided torpedoes,” W’Tan said.

“Copy, Acting Captain,” Krader said. “Six ought to do it, but I’ll make it ten just in case they still have some interference to run.”

“Very good, Acting Chief Tactical Officer. Then take us out of range of the collision,” she said, tapping at her console. “It is likely to detonate both halves of the ship, provided our infiltration teams have released the correct safeguards.”

“This new heading is … ” San Genevieve frowned. “You want us between the collision-point and that loose piece of spar? We’ll still be in potential debris range. Acting Captain.”

“I am aware of that, helmsman,” W’Tan said. “Launch a spread of impact charges when we are in position, and prepare for numerous small impacts and hull damage. The charges will only break up the larger pieces. Mister Krader, please also be on alert for any large debris that gets through the spread.”

“Copy, Acting Captain,” Krader said. “Torpedoes away, doesn’t look like they have much in the way of – wait, yes, they’ve launched a spread of their own but they seem to be wildly off-target.”

“Of course they are, Mister Krader,” W’Tan said. “Their ship is in freefall and the impact charges won’t know whether they’re supposed to stop the torpedoes or the modular. With any luck, they won’t stop either.”

“Taking us around the ship and out of the primary impact zone, Acting Captain,” San Genevieve announced.

Gratifyingly, even though clearly none of them had any idea why she wasn’t moving them farther out or at least getting the bulk of the Black Honey Wings’s docking spar between the explosion and their ship, the crew didn’t ask any more stupid questions. There were no more attempts at hostility from the dying starship, and when the Nope, Leftovers shouldered through the desperate spread of impact charges a minute or so later they shredded the front curve of her hull but otherwise did nothing to slow her down. By then, although they couldn’t see the detonations, the torpedo hits were clearly visible reflected off the assortment of junk floating around the Black Honey Wings. If the crew had been intending to take the pods to temporary safety or a lingering death from exposure, the option was now off the table.

Another minute or so after that, the modular smashed into the main body of the starship.

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Interlude: Weekend, again

Day 44. 160 pages, 75,287 words. No change.

Been a nice enough weekend. Saturday night we played the Game of Thrones board game with some friends (the day was won by Mrs. Hatboy playing the Baratheons), and today we’re going to make some jelly and go for a walk in the forest and maybe, just maybe, I’ll get to write some book this afternoon.

Saturday during the day, Wump and I went to the Flamingo swimming pools for the last time, at least for a while. The reason, more of this bullshit Finnish attitude towards regulations to the utter detriment of common sense.

Wump has been going on the water slides since she was three years old. Sitting in my lap, of course, and with her inflatable water wings on, but she’s a pretty reasonable swimmer and the slides are the only thing that make Flamingo worth going to and paying such an exorbitant price to get in. And yes, there is a sign saying you have to be ten to use the slide.


This, as Mrs. Hatboy pointed out, is even if you are a juniors swimming champion. If the kids on that slide were all over ten, I’ll eat my hat. And we have been there, as I say, about twenty times in the past two years, and never had a problem.

Saturday, though, we got the whistle. And the “stay off the slide, it’s too dangerous.”

Here’s a thought. How about you come save us if and when we are drowning, and until then, you fuck off you officious pain in the balls?

The good news is, I vented to family and friends (including a swimming pool lifeguard), and found a new pool to go to. I want Flamingo to know their overzealous rule-adherence has cost them a customer, and I’d like to be able to lay it specifically on that incompetent moron of a lifeguard, but I’ll settle for just not giving them any more of my money.

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Interlude: Customer service

Day 43. 160 pages, 75,287 words. Let’s assume nothing major done this weekend either, although I am chipping away and this will probably be reflected by a big jump early next week. At this rate it looks like I will be done well ahead of my 70-day deadline.

I don’t think I have ever registered a customer complaint due to a defective product. Oh, I have exchanged items that broke before their warranty expired, and I’ve complained unofficially about jerk-arse shipping companies that fail to deliver items in a convenient manner. And I’ve done a lot of bitching about Verkkokauppa and their shithouse service and complete inability to meet the customer halfway when they clearly need to be giving them a new item (seriously, fuck Verkkokauppa).

And okay, when I’ve gotten broken stuff on Amazon and even a hilariously misprinted book cover from my publishers, I got new stuff. So okay, I suppose I have done my share of highly-rewarding complaining. Anyway, I don’t care. Let me share another one with you.

Over the past few years, I have occasionally received a box of Dansac colostomy bags that have a glitch in them. Now don’t worry (or get excited, you sicko), it’s not the spectacular failure you might be picturing – just a problem with the soft cover on the outside of the bag. It peels off, leaving just the heavy-duty plastic which is not very comfortable even without the loose remains of the bag cover hanging like dead skin. Anyway, it wasn’t a huge issue, but it seemed like every now and then I would get a box where the whole run was flawed.

I should explain that I get bags, 30 to a box, and 8 or 9 boxes, every 6 months or so. They’re delivered to my supply station and they hold them for me until I call up and say I’m all out, then they let me know I can come and pick them up. It’s a bit of a cumbersome procedure, but hey. It’s free. I’ve also complained about KELA from time to time, in case you missed it. The point is, Dansac send the boxes to my supplier, and my supplier send them on to me through the ongoing health service.

Now, since I was a bit irritated by these flawed bags and just knew that as soon as I tried to tell anyone at KELA or the hospital about the issue I would be drowned in pointless paperwork, I sent an e-mail directly to the Dansac team from their global website Contacts page.

It’s not that if I don’t use them, I will run out of bags too soon and the supplier will cut me off, which is what seems to happen in the UK and other third-world countries. I’m pretty sure they’d just keep sending me bags whenever I say I’m out. But I didn’t want to have to advance my delivery schedule on account of a flawed product. Plus, this way, I can hold onto the slightly-inconvenient but still perfectly operational bags, and send them to my buddy Patrick in Kenya. Because they have it even worse than the poor slobs in the UK, seriously.

After a couple of very simple and very friendly e-mails back and forth with the Dansac people, in which I gave them the serial number of the flawed run of bags and sent a couple of pictures of the cover-less bags, they promised to send me two new boxes free of charge. And on Friday morning they arrived by courier. No fuss, no muss.

I just thought it would be nice to mention a company that actually got this shit right for once. The fact that they’re a colostomy bag company is just icing on the cake.

You are now imagining a cake with poo icing.

Have a nice weekend.

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Black Honey Wings, Part XVIII (Meanwhile, Again)

Day 42. 160 pages, 75,287 words.

The ship was quieter now, the freefall tumble of her main body and the launching of the escape pods finally trumping the blatting of the basic hygiene alarms and the wandering janitorials. Plus, they’d already been in this direction a couple of times, more or less, and Çrom decided it wasn’t worth the wasted minutes to change their route in accordance with time-honoured infiltration and avoidance methods. Soon they were back down on the recycling level and working their way around to the sealed cabins.

“Right,” Çrom said, when they stopped at the first door that Melvix estimated should open on the secure area. It didn’t look any different from this side, but he could see where the wall panels had been replaced and were slightly open at the seams. There would be metaflux plating underneath – a near-certain hunch that he idly confirmed by tugging at a panel near the door frame. Hey, it never hurt to check. They might have been as lazy about this as they had been with everything else on this ugly, ugly ship. “Door’s locked, obviously.”

“Should be simple enough to find the command clearance,” Blue said, stepping up and leaning over the access panel. “These are cells, and cells are meant to be difficult to open from the outside, but only impossible from the inside.”

“You’d know, Blue,” Gunton said in a tone of fond reminiscence.

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” Blue grinned and glanced sidelong at Gunton, the delicate red wings of her ears dipping and then flaring deliberately. She brought three hands up to the panel and worked at furious speed for a few seconds. “Captain,” she said.

“If you’re thinking they didn’t bother customising this ship since they acquired it, and you want the default executive override codes for standard modulars, just let me know when you want me to enter them,” Çrom said.

Captain,” Blue said, her tone chiding. “Don’t you trust me?”

“With my life, Persephone,” Çrom said extravagantly. “But sooner or later this mission will be over, and you’ll be off into the grey with the Holy Grail of thieves who like to rip off lazy, incompetent AstroCorps crews.”

“AstroCorps pays me to rip off their lazy and incompetent,” Blue retorted, her fingers still a blur. “It helps thin out their numbers.”

“Some of my best friends are lazy and incompetent.”

“Why am I not surprised…” Blue murmured, “but fine, enter it now,” she leaned back from the panel.

Çrom stepped up, studied the mechanism for a moment, then tapped it five times. “There you go.”

“Are you serious?” Blue squinted. “That’s the kind of thing an idiot would have on his-”

“It’s a default code,” Çrom said. “How complex do you want it to be?” he examined his fingernails. “It is, however, dependent on the AstroCorps Modular Payload database,” he went on, “and is keyed to executive officer DNA from the record, synchronised every time the ship runs into a synth or docks with an official vehicle of the Corps. It won’t do you any good until you make Captain. Which, last time I checked, might be a long wait for you.”

“You’re hilarious,” Blue grunted, and resumed tapping at the panel.

“Handsome, too,” Çrom agreed.

The door opened to reveal twelve – no, fifteen – humans in what looked like a grid of four crew cabins with the interior walls removed. It was a wide-open space with beds in the middle, but nowhere had been out of range of the exploding recycling chutes. There had only been four of them – one for each renovated cabin – but this part of the crew quarters was very close indeed to the recycling plant.

“You poor, stinking sons of bitches,” Constable said.

The humans displayed a variety of light chemical burns, and a whole lot of nausea and the other delightful things that happened when you got sprayed with rancid acidic sewage. Even without this coating of misery, they were clearly prisoners.

“Good Lord, what have these monsters done to you?” Çrom exclaimed in outrage. Melvix picked at the hole Nak Dool had gored in his shirt, the Molran equivalent of choking on laughter. “Come on, my friends. Captain Çrom Skelliglyph of the A-Mod 400. We’re getting you out of here.”

The prisoners didn’t argue, and none of them seemed too badly injured to need help as they shuffled out. One of them, a tangle-haired woman in the stained remains of an AstroCorps Sciences uniform, stopped at Çrom’s side in the doorway.

“They made us eat Fergunakil,” she said.

“Us too,” Çrom said.

“Too much oil,” Blue remarked.

“To the dock,” Çrom said, “the clock is ticking and the subluminal drive is approaching parameter-breach as we speak. Melvix, this is everyone. Everyone, Melvix.”

“You’re determined to make these people my responsibility,” Melvix said, “aren’t you?”

“These people are my responsibility,” Çrom said, squinting nobly into the middle-distance because it seemed appropriate to the moment. He turned, smiled, and patted Melvix on the upper shoulders. “It’s called delegating.”

They herded the retching, stumbling, unspeakably stank-up prisoners through the ship and back to the docking area. They stayed on the same level. Çrom made a brief and low-pressure attempt to question them, and managed to establish that they’d been aboard a small non-Corps private transport from Aquilar to a variety of somewhere-elses. The transport had been too badly damaged to integrate into the Black Honey Wings, and too big to dock internally, but the prisoners were unaware of what had happened to it. Çrom guessed that it, and its official crew, had been left in deep space to die.

Clearly, Dool and his little army had been trying to figure out whether their prisoners were worth anything to anyone.

The Corps Sci woman – not technically full-Corps, but Academy trained  and evidently graduated from at least some preliminary compulsory units before moving into whatever balloon-head specialty stream she’d chosen – was named Marley Gazzoon. She was the only remotely non-civilian prisoner in the bunch as far as Çrom could make out through the sludge and the hunching, but she was pretty stunned by the treatment they’d undergone. She seemed to have come into space thinking it would be nice. Like living in the sky, only darker.

Gazzoon did, however, have a good idea for blowing the docks and separating the Nope, Leftovers from the remains of the Chrys spar.

“These sections,” she pointed as they passed by, “have been converted into additional security barriers. Shut down boarders from the opposite dock, have a clear space to … to shoot them.”

“I remember thinking the same thing,” Çrom agreed. “Unfortunately they took all the guns with them when they abandoned ship,” he looked down. “Apart from the guns we took,” he added, “and none of them are big enough to blast this modular off its spar.”

“But they used hull plating,” Gazzoon pointed, “with its backing layers removed to make it easier to cut and fix in place.”

“Yes,” Çrom said, then stopped. “Yes.”

“Captain?” Melvix said.

“Look at it, Melvix,” Çrom pointed. “Those murder-holes are just sheets of that reversible polymer stuff, same as the brig. With its back-plating off. Super-tough from this side, but they can shoot through from the other side,” he grinned as he saw it dawn on the Molran.

“Loosen them in their fittings and reverse their molecular directionality, and they’ll push through the surrounding hull until the polymer overheats,” Melvix said. “And when it overheats it shuts down.”

“And more importantly,” Çrom concluded, “it’ll do so right down in the guts of the docking mechanism where it will definitely set off the emergency disengagement charges.”

“Provided they haven’t taken the initiative of reconfiguring them,” Blue said.

Çrom grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

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